


Castiel's Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find them

by happylindsay



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Cas is a wizard, Dean is a muggle, Destiel - Freeform, M/M, Movie 1: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them Spoilers, some things are different than the harry potter books, some things are different than the move
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 20:33:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8768269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happylindsay/pseuds/happylindsay
Summary: Destiel meets Fantastic Beasts and Where to find them. Because who doesn't love 1920s Dean and Awkward Cas who loves his Beasties?





	1. Peeping Dean

**Author's Note:**

> I've got way too many stories I'm writing to start this one, but I JUST COULDN'T HELP IT! It probably will be a short fic if I finish it out :)

Dean had had a bit too much to drink tonight, that much was starting to be clear as he shuffled down the street in uneven patterns.

 _Sam's gonna be pissed_ , Dean thought as he leaned against a dim-lit lamp post for some quick relief from the heady spin of the alcohol. He turned back, eyeing the building behind him where the speakeasy he'd been at was tucked inside the Jazz Club.

Dean smiled, thinking of the blonde woman he'd “entertained” during tonight's visit. The twenties in New York could be such fun, and Dean intended to take advantage of every bit of it, to his younger brother's chagrin. Which is why Dean knew he couldn't go home to Sam's judgmental looks. At least not until he'd sobered up a bit. He'd just stay outside and use the chill of the air to ground him until he felt dry enough to call a taxi.

Suddenly, the black sky groaned in protest, bursting with veiny streams of lightning. Dean pulled down on his black bowler hat, wrapping his coat more firmly around his suit.

“Damn it,” he said, stumbling over to the side of the street to seek shelter under the stoop of one of the nearby apartments. His fingers started to shake a little as he pulled his gold cigarette box free from the front pocket of his coat. Dean placed the thin smoke between his lips squinting through the rain's now pouring sheets.

He sighed as he pulled out his matchbook. He should have gone home an hour ago.

Squatting down, Dean struck the match lifting it to his cigarette as his vision drifted to the curtained window of the bottom apartment he stood by. Ratty curtains covered nearly the entire expanse of glass except for one small corner, but what Dean spied through it made him drop his match before it even touched his cigarette. Dean opened his mouth a little in surprise sending his smoke tumbling to the ground next to the dying flame.

Because in the apartment next to him was a tiny, pink, fluffy slug with sharp vampire looking teeth. And, though Dean was fairly intoxicated, he could have sworn the thing was smiling and waving at him with one of its tiny, furry arms.

“What the—” Dean started, but was cut off as he heard a stern voice from inside the apartment speaking sharply. Dean could barely make out the shadow of a man through the curtains as he came closer.

“Tanya! Stay away from the window please, you know what will happen if a muggle—” but the man stopped as he seemed to notice that Tanya was looking at something. And, in a second, a hand was wrapping around the curtain as the material was slowly lifted to reveal a man in a black suit and tan trench coat with the messiest hair and the bluest eyes Dean had ever seen.

And behind the man was an assortment of the strangest looking creatures Dean had ever laid eyes on. Dean blinked and swallowed as he took a step back, his eyes widening as he took in the view.

“Uh oh,” Dean heard the man say loudly through the thin glass. And, surprisingly, the dark haired man seemed to be just as startled to see Dean standing there. Dean watched as the man opened his palm letting something slide into it from his sleeve. A stick?

Suddenly, the stranger was flicking the stick in strange patterns through the air yelling “stupefy” as he aimed it at Dean's confused frame.

“Wha—” Dean started, but couldn't finish, because in a second, everything went black.


	2. Hangovers and other Beastly Creatures

Dean woke with a headache fit to rival any he'd had in a long, long time. _How much did I have to drink last night?_ he thought, groaning and beginning to rub his temples in wide heavy circles with his middle fingers. 

He hadn't even opened his eyes yet and already he could tell it was bright outside. He was surprised Sam hadn't come in to wake him up for Sunday Mass yet. Wait, Sam. . . Dean's eyes flew open quickly when he realized he didn't have any memory of making it home last night. 

Dean pulled the covers up to his chin as his eyes scanned his surroundings. To his left was a large weather-beaten writing desk filled with stacks of magazines piled indiscriminately in tall, precarious towers. Not only that, but the place was surrounded with an untidy array of nick knacks and trinkets which were completely foreign to Dean. No, this was _not_ his room. 

He looked down at his suspenders realizing that someone had carefully removed his coat and placed him in bed, tucking him in like a child. Dean slowly pushed the covers down by his feet, then dipped his toes off the side of the bed, wincing as the mattress groaned against his weight. He'd just dawned his jacket and shoes when suddenly there was a knock on the door. 

Dean froze, looking for something he could potentially use as a weapon, but before he could react, the door was opening just a crack. Then, like a child playing peek-a-boo, a dark brown mop of hair and two blue eyes were suddenly peering sideways from behind the door. 

Dean's eyes widened. “You!” he said, memories starting to come back to him, pointing at the man, running to the door and flinging it wide open. The dark haired man stumbled into the hall, hitting his back against the other wall with a thump. 

“What the hell did you do to me?” Dean accused. He was taller than the man, but even without the height, Dean knew he could be intimidating when he wanted to be. 

And, as if on cue, the man started stuttering, raising his hands up in the air in surrender. “I. . . you. . . you passed out,” he said. “I took you inside and gave you a place to sleep off the, uh, the uh—” 

Suddenly, Dean took a step backward, nodding in acknowledgment, letting the man know he didn't need to continue any further. _Oh god,_ he thought, _I passed out drunk on this man's porch, that's a new low, even for me. And he took me in? God, this man must be a saint. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have done that for a stranger._

Dean scooted back inside the room starting to feel guilty. He sat on the edge of the bed, shaking his head. 

“I am so sorry,” he said. “I must have had a lot more to drink last night than I realized. . .” he trailed off. Dean looked up as the man shyly raised his shoulders in the air in an “it's no trouble” gesture. 

Awkward silence blanketed the two men as Dean scanned his rescuer with new eyes. The man had wildly unruly hair, and bright blue eyes. He wore a worn out trench coat and pants that were too short, exposing bits of his ankles clad in mismatched socks. Normally, Dean wouldn't have given a man like this a second glance if it weren't for his eyes. . . they were unforgettably blue, framed with a pretty impressively commanding jawline for someone so timid. 

Dean suddenly felt the urge to introduce himself as a blush began to heat the insides of his cheeks: “My name's Dean.” 

“Castiel,” said the man reaching forward for an awkwardly hasty handshake. Dean returned it with a small smile as the man looked away. This was by far one of the strangest men Dean had ever met. 

“Well,” said Dean, standing and grabbing his hat. “Thank-you so much for your help, but I'm sure I've trespassed on you long enough.” 

The man didn't reply, so Dean started to find his own way out of the apartment, making his way to the front door. 

But, just inside the living room, he stopped. This place was. . . familiar. 

“Did you?—” Dean suddenly asked, pointing at a bookshelf high up on the wall. “I could have sworn that—“ 

Suddenly, Castiel was by his side, looking at the spot where Dean was pointing and, though Dean could have been imagining it, he thought the man was starting to look nervous. 

Then Dean shook his head, clearing away the strange images of fangs, wings and fur that were creeping into his mind. Maybe he should start listening to Sam and cutting back on the alcohol. 

“It's nothing,” said Dean letting out a tiny laugh as he waved off Castiel's endearing squint eyed look of confusion. “I just think I had some strange dreams last night.” 

“Happens to the best of us,” said Castiel tightly, but the tension in his voice was tangible. And, in a second, Dean felt himself being steered towards the door. 

“Well, have a lovely Sunday,” said Castiel as he quickly opened the door practically pushing Dean through it. 

Dean blinked in surprise, wheeling around to look at his good Samaritan’s face one last time. 

“Uh, thanks again,” dean stuttered, suddenly feeling strange about his abrupt departure. The door was already starting to close. But, in a flash Dean was placing his foot in the door, keeping it from closing all the way as he spied something on Castiel's jacket. 

“Wait,” Dean cried pointing at a small green twig poking out from one of the lapels on Castiel's trench coat. And he jumped when the stick moved, crawling up to nuzzle what Dean could now see was a tiny head in the crook of Castiel's neck. 

“Holy shit,” Dean said, his mouth falling open“What is that thing?” 

Castiel opened his eyes wide in panic and a second later, a small brown stick was in his hands. 

_Shit,_ Dean thought, suddenly beginning to remember last night with thorough clarity, because he knew what was coming next. 

“Stupefy!” 


	3. Muggles

Castiel peeked around the corner, hoping no one else saw his anxiety-induced flagrant display of magic. Then, convinced the street was clear of wandering eyes, Castiel reached down and wrapped a hand around each of the man's—Dean's ankles pulling him back into his parlor with considerable effort. 

When he'd finally dragged the unconscious man's body across the stoop and through the entryway, he slammed the door shut, leaning back on it with labored breaths. 

“I did,” he huffed through broken words, directing his attention to Pickett, the tiny green stick bug that clung to his collar, “not. . . handle. . . that. . . well.” 

The creature nodded in agreement, crawling to the drop of Castiel's shoulder to get a better look at the man on the floor, then, glancing back at Castiel with a judgmental look. Castiel glared at Pickett, pursing his lips. 

“This is your fault, you know,” he said. 

The little creature placed a tiny leaf hand over his thin chest, looking affronted. Castiel tried to hold his stern expression, but, as usual, the wizard's face quickly melted apologetically. This wasn't Pickett's fault. It was his. Had he actually tried to convince a stranger that he'd dreamed about magical creatures in a drunken haze? 

_What was I thinking?_ he asked himself, sighing as he ran his his palms over the front of his face. It wasn't a well-thought-out plan to say the least, which was saying something considering the past accounts of Castiel's “plans” weren't full of success. 

Castiel started to circle the unconscious man, thinking. What to do, what to do? He squatted down next to the man, viewing his sleeping form with curiosity. Dean was extremely attractive, even by wizard standards, that much was clear. Castiel had noticed it last night, and if he hadn't been so full of anxiety over a muggle seeing his magic, he probably wouldn't have been quite so eager to push the man out the door. Though muggles did tend to have an infinitely less progressive view on relationships between two men. And that was saying something since Castiel had been rather quiet about his own sexual preferences even inside the wizarding world. And wizards were far more accepting of the idea. 

Castiel shoved these thoughts out of his head. They were irrelevant next to the more pressing concern of magical law. He was in a considerable about of trouble if anyone found out about this. There was no denying the fact that he'd screwed up. Again. A muggle had seen his magic, and Castiel was left to figure out how to work this out on his own. He sighed. People could be so messy. Why couldn't they be more like his creatures? Straightforward. Earnest. In Castiel's opinion, his beasts were far better at communication than any wizard or muggle he'd met. 

Then again, he wasn't exactly the best judge of people. One thing was certain, Castiel had never been normal enough to recognize the concept. If he'd been a normal wizard, he'd have already obliviated the stranger and sent him stumbling back into the streets with a freshly scrubbed mind, none the wiser about magic wands and Castiel's furry friends. But, upon thinking about the prospect of using the spell he started to feel the familiar guilt of it. And he knew he couldn't do it. Not again. 

Well, if he was unwilling to use the spell on the man—Dean, then perhaps it was time to face facts. Castiel would simply have to explain everything to him and hope he'd show some mercy. And with that, it was decided. So, with a deep breath, he reached down and shook the unconscious man's shoulder. 

_Here goes nothing._


	4. Take Two

Dean's eyes opened slowly, his expression groggy, and Castiel found himself holding his breath as he watched. The muggle would remember him immediately this time, he felt certain.

Castiel watched as the man's eyes slowly flutter open for the second time that morning. Green eyes scanned his surroundings, disoriented, then seemed to widen in understanding. Immediately, Dean scrambled backwards into the wall with a thump, knocking one of Castiel's pictures to the ground, glass shattering inside the frame. Neither man paid it any attention as Dean's breathing sped up. 

“You—” he huffed, pointing at Castiel accusingly, then turned his finger to the window where he'd first caught Castiel the night before “he— they—”

Castiel tried not to smile, though it was an endearing display to watch the muggle struggle to put the pieces together. The wizard took a tentative step forward, then stopped as Dean flinched at the action. 

Castiel put his hands in the air tentatively, in a show of surrender, setting his wand down on the counter next to him. “No wand,” he said carefully with a shrug, trying to calm the muggle down. 

But, to the wizard's surprise, this only seemed to make Dean's eyes widen further, glancing from the stick to Castiel's face then back again quickly. 

“Wand?” Dean gaped suddenly, his chin jutting forward, then he was whispering, “like. . . magic?” 

Castiel nodded sheepishly, noting the awkward silence that followed. Should he say something? He never really was very good at saying something. So, instead, he tried to take another slow step forward like he would with one of his frightened beasts, hands still in the air in a display of peace. Maybe he could— suddenly Dean was moving, cutting off Castiel's train of thought. And, before he knew it, the muggle had snuck up on him and grabbed his wand from the counter, brandishing it at the wizard as if it were a knife. 

This time Castiel took a step backward. “What are you doing?” he asked the muggle, growing nervous. 

Dean's eyes scanned the wand as if searching for an on switch. Then, his eyes landed on Castiel's darkly. 

“What the hell did you do to me?” Dean accused, pointing the wand menacingly.

Castiel took a breath, “I'll tell you everything, but you really should put that down,” he said, gesturing at Dean's hand with a concerned look. 

But just then, Castiel could feel a flutter of pressure on his shoulder as green flashed in his peripheral. He turned to look just as Pickett's hands copied Castiel's in a display of surrender. 

“What?!” Dean coughed again, gripping the wand tighter, now pointing it at Pickett. 

Castiel glared at him in warning. “Don't,” he barked at Dean. 

But it was too late. In a second, Dean was flicking the wand haphazardly at the two of them. And, a moment later, there was a white flash of light followed by a deafening explosion. 

Castiel's ears rang as he felt Pickett's small frame shaking where he'd found solace in the breast pocket of his coat. Then, as his eyes adjusted, he could see the black soot framing everything around the room. The walls. The carpet. Dean's skin and hair. And, without a mirror, Castiel knew he looked the same. 

Slowly, Castiel walked toward Dean's stunned frame and pointedly picked up the wand from where it had fallen on the ground. 

Castiel pointed at a chair until Dean took the hint and stumbled into it, then, he tucked his wand back into his coat. 

Castiel calmly wiped the soot off of his pant legs as Pickett glared at Dean's frazzled form with his arms folded across his chest. 

“It's not a great idea to touch a wizard's wand,” said Castiel matter of factly. Then, pulling up another chair to sit next to Dean, he continued tentatively— “we should probably talk.”


	5. Wizard

Dean looked down at his soot covered suit, then glanced at Castiel, the wizard. 

“Did you—?” Dean started, pointing at Castiel's coat pocket that held the wand inside it. “Did I just—?” 

“Almost light my apartment on fire?” Castiel said candidly. “Yes.” 

He thought that Castiel sounded oddly calm, considering, but Dean couldn't verify the theory with a glance to the wizard's face, because Dean's eyes were glued on the green-leafed stick. The tiny plant was waving his hands in the air as if he were gesturing for Castiel to emphasize his point as he talked. 

When Castiel noticed, he smiled a little at the creature, and the tiny stick figure shrugged at being caught. 

“Oh,” Castiel said, “yes, this is pickett. He's one of the many magical creatures I have under my care. He's a bowtruckle.” 

Pickett reached a leafy hand forward into the air. Dean stared at it, opened mouthed, trying to orient himself. 

“He wants to shake your hand,” said Castiel finally, still smiling. 

Dean shook himself out of his daze, slowly reaching his hand forward as if worried the bowtruckle might bite him. Neither Pickett or Castiel seemed to mind the wait, and when Dean's finger finally touched the soft leaf of Pickett's “hand,” the bowtruckle wrapped the leaf around the tip of Dean's finger, shaking it vigorously. 

Dean swallowed. “Uh, how do you do?” he choked awkwardly. 

Still, Dean couldn't concentrate on it as his mind repeated the phrases “wizard,” and “other creatures,” in his head trying to decide which question that posed itself burned to be answered more. 

He glanced at the door wondering if he would be successful in getting away if he made a break for it. His eyes glanced down at the outline of the wand in Castiel's coat pocket, feeling doubtful. Dean wasn't by any means bad in a fight. He'd won the few drunken ones he'd gotten himself into. But even still, this odd, strangely dressed man who claimed to be a witch? No, a wizard, had knocked Dean out cold twice without even touching him. 

“What do you want from me?” Dean said finally, deciding his best bet was to play along with the man. 

Castiel scratched at his head, dipping his chin down shyly. “Well,” he said, “You've seen some of my creatures, and you've seen some magic. If I was another wizard, I would have already obliviated you by now, but personally, I find it distasteful to tinker with someone's mind.” 

Dean's eyes widened, “You can do that?” he said, his voice catching. 

Castiel nodded, then looked at his hands as he talked, seeming to take on a shy manner which was strange to Dean. “Yes,” Castiel said, a sad tone to his voice. “I'm supposed to make you forget everything you saw. If the Ministry of Magic found out a muggle saw me practicing my craft, well, let's just say it wouldn't be good.” 

“Muggle?” Dean said, his head starting to spin. The more Castiel talked, the more confused he became. 

“Ah yes,” Castiel said, “Non-magical people like yourself.” 

Dean nodded slowly, as if he were following, knowing that this was, in fact, the strangest conversation he'd ever taken part in. 

“Anyway,” Castiel continued, “I'm supposed to obliviate you—that is, make you forget, before the Ministry finds out that a muggle knows about magic.” 

Dean just continued nodding stupidly, his mouth sealed shut, his eyes wide. “Obliviate. . .” he repeated quietly, as if it were a normal word in his vocabulary. Castiel nodded back enthusiastically as if he thought the conversation were going well. 

“So you can see the problem I'm facing then?” he said, sounding pleased. 

Dean was still nodding dumbly, looking into Castiel's blue eyes. _Wizard,_ Dean's brain said. _Wizard. Wizard._

“Wizard,” Dean spat out suddenly, his head bobbing as he stared through Castiel's face. 

“Yes,” Castiel explained. “Exactly! I'm a wizard who can do magic. And, this is really important, I need you not to tell anyone. So,” Castiel continued, his face earnest, “I just have to make sure. Can you keep all of this a secret?” 

“Wizard. . . ” Dean said again, swallowing against a very dry mouth. 

Castiel squinted his eyes at this, his head tilted as if he were examining Dean like he was broken and he was trying to find the cause. 

Suddenly, Dean stood quickly, not answering Castiel's question. “Do you have a bathroom?” he choked. 

Castiel pointed down the hall. “Right there,” he said, his voice trailing off. 

Dean nodded. Again. Then, he made his way into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him after inspecting the room and finding a normal washroom. Dean rested his back against the door, taking a deep breath. 

“Ok,” he said to himself, trying to calm down. He looked down at his ruined suit. He ran his hands through his soot-covered hair, then swallowed. “Wizard.” 


	6. Farewell?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, I know it's a short chapter, but I thought you deserved an update ;)

Castiel stared at the bathroom door, a frown on his face. He could feel the light tickle of Pickett against his collar, the creature's tiny breaths waving the curls of hair at the base of his neck. 

“What do you think, Pick, can we trust him?” 

Picket crawled around to perch, cross-legged at the knot at the top of Castiel's tie, raising both shoulders in a shrug. 

“Yeah,” Cas whispered in agreement, “well, I guess there's one way to find out.” 

Just then, the door to the bathroom swung open, Dean tumbling out. The muggle had washed his face and gotten some of the soot out of his hair, but still looked black and ashy from the earlier explosion, his green eyes practically glowing with the contrast. 

Castiel cleared his throat to speak, but Dean beat him to the punch. 

“Listen,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck “Uh, this has been strange and all, but, I really need to be going. Am I? Am I a prisoner here, or. . .?” 

Castiel's eyes widened immediately. “No,” he said earnestly. “I just needed you to understand that you can't. . .you can't tell anyone about this. Any of it.” 

Now that Dean's face was clean, he could see the way that the man's face had paled from before. Dean had found his hat while Cas was talking and was twisting the rim between his fingers. Slowly, and awkwardly, Dean nodded. 

“Alright,” he breathed. “I won't.” Then looking at Cas; “Can I go?” 

Castiel bit his lip, nodding to the ground. “Of course,” he said quietly, “but what I said earlier, about the ministry, I could. . . I could get into some serious trouble for not obliviating you on the spot.” 

Dean shuddered a little at the mention of obliviation. He exhaled deeply. “Yeah, thanks for not. . . mind-controlling me,” he said then ran his hands across his face. “God, this is all so weird.” 

Castiel smiled timidly at this, and their eyes caught quietly, staring longer than socially appropriate before Dean fumbled with his hat, dropping it to the ground, then hastily picked it up and smashed it on his head. Dean stepped backwards, hitting his back against a corner then, turned quickly to find the door. He wrapped his hand around the doorknob then paused, staring at his toes with an unreadable expression. He stayed that way for a long time, quietly blinking against his shoes. 

Castiel braved a step forward. Dean flinched when he saw it, and the wizard stopped. 

Then, quietly, Dean whispered. “I won't tell anyone,” before opening the door and rushing outside, shutting it in Castiel's face. 

From the window, Castiel could see Dean's brisk walk away from the apartment, barely dodging a car when he'd rushed too quickly into the road, his sooty suit finally disappearing behind a building. 

Castiel looked down at bowtruckle whose arms were crossed. 

“I had to let him go,” Castiel said. “I wasn't about to kidnap him.” 

Then, more tentatively: “He said he won't tell anyone.” And Castiel wished his declaration sounded more confident. 


	7. Sammy

It started raining again as Dean walked to his apartment, the muggy gloom of overcast hovering above him during his long walk. He trudged through puddles watching black drip from his fingertips like runny watercolor from the ash. 

He would have to have a damn good explanation to give Sam when he got there. And, unless he intended to say that he'd spent the night with a girl in a coal mine, he'd better come up with something. And quickly. He shivered against the thought. 

Dean stomped through a puddle, watching the water burst then settle over his ruined shoes. _Spent the night with a painter._ Stomp again. _Fell down into the grimy street._ Stomp. _Met a man who claimed to be a wizard and I almost killed us both with his_ WAND _._ Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. 

With every step, blue eyes. With every step brown, messy hair. 

Dean sighed, running a palm across his soaked face, stopping. He was staring at the front of his apartment complex, lines of rain pelting through his suit, making him shiver. In fact, the cold was so prevalent at this point that he felt like a giant block of ice, fused to the streets. 

He took a deep breath, finally willing himself to open the door to the lobby, warm air immediately rushing through him in stark contrast to the cold. Dean did his best to stomp out the water before coming inside, but he could still feel himself trailing in a mess when he finally stepped onto the dark, plush rug in the foyer. 

On cue, a man in a suit was immediately there holding a towel out for Dean with a half-concealed look of annoyance on his face. 

“Mr. Winchester,” he said, sounding equally bored and disappointed as he looked Dean up and down. Not that that reaction was anything new from George. “Your brother is just getting out of a meeting,” he said. “He wanted you to find him in the penthouse if you ever decided to show up.” 

Dean rolled his eyes, feeling his own bout of annoyance creep in. He grabbed the towel roughly from the doorman. 

“Fine,” he said, circling the towel around his ankles in an attempt to wring out the excess water. Then, deciding it was as good as it was going to get, he made his way to the elevator, ignoring the surprised look the operator gave him at his disheveled appearance. Unlike George, however, the operator quickly schooled his face into something more professional. 

“Mr. Winchester,” the man nodded respectfully, closing the grating once Dean had trudged his way inside. 

Dean continued trying to dry his suit as the man pressed the appropriate button, watching the towel turn gray with his attempts. He swallowed at the first jolt of the elevator's movement, hands stilling. 

Dean closed his eyes, counting, holding his breath. As many times as he'd been in these things, he couldn't help but feel they were a death trap waiting to happen. A loud, metallic grating tombstone. 

He listened to the clicks, muscles tensing as the box crawled upward at a painfully slow pace. Then, finally they reached their destination, the metal screeching away with the elevator assistant's quick hands. Freedom. 

Dean stumbled out quickly, not bothering to look back at the man's face. He walked five steps to the door, then without pausing, he opened it. 

His eyes roamed around the familiar large expanse of velvet-clad furniture, chandeliers and decorative rugs, feeling slightly guilty at the slimy drip of rainwater down his legs. 

Predictably, he could hear Sam's voice trailing from the other room: 

“No,” Sam said. “Tell him I'm holding firm on this and if he wants— yes. Yes exactly. Alright, then. Get in touch with me when it's done.” 

Dean heard the click as Sam hung up the phone, and then he was walking around the corner. Sam's eyes widened comically large when he took in Dean's form. 

“Dean?” he breathed, walking to his side, quickly. 

Dean smiled, seeing his brother's expensive suit—a stark contrast to his ruined one. He looked so impressive, even with his shaggy haircut that no one could pull off in these times without a significant amount of respect and power. Both of which Sammy held. And yet, two seconds into seeing his big brother soaked in the middle of the entryway, he was there with a concerned look on his face, arm against Dean's, expensive suits be damned. 

Dean sighed, waving a hand. “I'm fine,” he croaked. 

Sam nodded, taking in his appearance, and Dean wondered how his brother had developed such a parental face, considering Dean had been the one to raise _him._

“What happened?” Sam croaked. “When you didn't come home last night, I figured that you were just out with another. . . girl.” 

Dean tried unsuccessfully not to smirk, though he knew how Sam felt about his. . .lifestyle. It was a constant source of issues between them. 

Dean sighed. “I'm sorry if I worried you.” 

“I wasn't worried,” Sam said with a guilty look. “I mean, now that I see you I'm realizing I probably should have been, though. What the hell happened?” 

Dean bit his lip, suddenly remembering last night. For a moment he'd forgotten his strange encounter, now faced with reality. But, his suit was still wet and black, and he could still hear Castiel's—what a weird name—childlike enthusiasm as he explained to Dean about being a wizard. 

A wizard. A wizard. God, that word was still so strange. Dean felt his hands go weak again as he walked toward the couch. He fell on it, expecting Sam to say something about ruining the upholstery. Instead, he was sure he must look shaken when Sam still stared back with a concerned look instead of an angry one. 

And, suddenly, Dean wanted nothing more than to tell Sam all of it. Everything. They weren't the type of brothers to keep anything from each other. Even incriminating things. He'd made a point to never lie to Sammy. 

And yet, Dean could still hear his own promise ringing in his head: _I won't tell anyone._

What did he owe that man, anyway? He barely knew him. And yet, he could still see furrowed blue eyes, looking at him innocently while his little stick pet nuzzled the bend of his neck. 

So, he looked at Sam, swallowing hard against his brothers expectant face: 

“There was a small fire.” 

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is [@justrandomspnstuff](http://justrandomspnstuff.tumblr.com/) feel free and come say hello! :)


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